Stan really hates coming to Benji’s house. No, that’s not true. I think he’d be cool if we actually did this shit in Benji’s house, which is as nice and LA as any of ours. What he hates is meeting in Benji’s cinderblock, faux three-bay garage which is almost an exact replica of the one at his parents’ house in Texas where LtG got our start. I can’t imagine Benji’s neighbors like the damn thing much better. They paid millions of dollars to overlook a structure that resembles a crappy-ass massive shed? Yep, they sure did.

Stan hating it is one of the reasons we make him do this. It’s good for his immune system to get out of that glass tower his office is in and the white modern monstrosity he calls home. He tries to dust off the recliner before he sits, but dude, that dirt has been there probably longer than you’ve been alive. Good luck.

He also gives the wagon-wheel coffee table the same wrinkled-nose he always gives it. But you know what? If this is where we work—and we do—I don’t see how he can really say anything about it. And he doesn’t, just seems in a hurry to get this show on the road so he can go bathe in a vat of Purell.

“Okay, I have a few things to go over with you guys. The Game On tour is still being planned out. I’ll give you dates, venues, and details as soon as I have them. Album sales are very good, thanks in part to Zane’s sideshow at the Snow and Ice Games a few months ago. If all of you could start banging a starlet or elite athlete, I would very much appreciate it, and so would your bank accounts.”

“Hey, I fuck plenty of starlets. Where’s my trophy?”

Zane throws a mini-basketball at my head, but I catch it and toss it into the net on the wall. “Three points, sucker.”

Benji elbows me. “I think you have to actually date them, not just fuck them, dumbass.”

“Then forget that.” And in case I didn’t get my point across, I put Benji in a headlock and fluff his hair. He’s adorable when he tries to get out of it.

Stan looks less impressed with us than he usually does. Which isn’t much to start with, even though we bankroll that fancy car he drives and have paid for his second and third divorces. You’d think he’d be used to it; we’ve pretty much been the same for the past ten years. Maybe that’s his problem—does he think we ought to have grown up by now? Not likely. We just have way more money to spend on the fun shit.

“Never mind, forget I said anything about it. This Zane-and-Rowan-Andrews thing will keep us in business for a while, especially because I believe the lady herself is coming to LA soon, am I right?”

Zane flushes and scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah, she’s coming on Wednesday. And before you ask, yes, I’m going to take her out. Plenty of photo ops, okay?”

For the first time, Stan looks pleased. He obviously doesn’t give a shit that Zane is really looking forward to having his girlfriend in town for a change—Zane’s usually the one going to visit her in Lake Placid of all the fucking places on earth—Stan’s just happy there’ll be more free publicity.

The rest of us have…let’s say, mixed feelings. We like Rowan, she’s awesome, and we love Zane, so of course we want him to be happy. But him singing that goddamn song on Talk America at the SIGs started something I’m not sure we can stop. I don’t know if anyone besides me wants to stop it anyhow. The start of Zane’s solo career is the first step in the end of LtG. I can feel it.

Stan acts cool about it, like nothing is going to change for the band, and so far that’s been true. We’re still making music together, no one’s ducking out on LtG responsibilities to do something for their solo careers or whatever their next step is. I don’t blame him for marching on like nothing’s up because LtG has been such a cash cow for him for so long. But now that the toothpaste’s out of the tube, I know he’s got his shrewd eye on what the rest of our plans are. He’s walking a tightrope, Stan is, between keeping the LtG juggernaut going, but also wanting to cash in on what’s coming down the pipeline. Guy’s good at his job, which is awesome for us, but I’m not as fond of his mercenary nature when he turns it on us.

“Okay, then. Next on the agenda. We had the usual slate of charity requests, ninety-nine percent I’ve refused. You boys don’t have time for that small potatoes stuff. No way it could be worth your while. There is, however, one I thought you might want to consider.”

That’s weird. Stan’s not a fan of us doing anything that isn’t going to make us—and therefore him—dollar bills. This must be something special if he actually wants us to think about it.

“It’s a charity calendar for literacy. The kicker, though, is they’ve assembled some of the best photographers in the business to shoot the pics, so it’s not going to look like some kid got ahold of his grandparents’ Polaroid, and they’ve made arrangements with a dozen libraries throughout the country to shoot in. It’s a thirty-under-thirty theme with a whole range of industries repped. You’re their top choice for pop groups, but they’ve got Elderflower, Oswego, or Turn It Up on their list, too. If you don’t take it, I’m sure one of them will.”

He eyes each of us in turn, trying to figure out if we’re game or not. I don’t care. Photoshoots are fun, it sounds like a good cause, and we might get some spots on morning shows and shit. That’s always good for sales. Zane’s probably less enthused because, between Rowan and his solo stuff, he’s already trying to dial back his commitments to us. Not that I blame him or am pissed at him, but it kinda sucks.

“I say we do it.” Christian’s clear, quiet voice cuts through the silence, and we all look at him. He’s the least likely of us to weigh in. For the most part, he sits there with his dark hair drifting over one of his eyes—sometimes he bleaches it blond or dyes it some shade of neon—and lets other people make the decisions. Not that he’s a pushover; he’s just never seemed much interested in strategy or marketing or anything to do with the business, really. Not even so much with the music. He’ll play it and he’ll help out when Zane’s composing, but I don’t get the feeling his soul’s particularly attached to what we do. We’ve got his body, as slight as he is, but not all of him.

I expect someone, Zane maybe, to offer a counterpoint, but we all exchange glances while Christian sits there, having resumed tapping his sticks on his thighs in a rhythm that’s not from one of our songs. Like after he’s made the effort to say something, he doesn’t actually care what we do. Maybe he doesn’t want to pressure us, but if he went to the trouble of speaking up, he definitely cares.

Also, I want to encourage him to get more invested in the business side of things. Mostly it’s cool that he’s not obsessed with numbers and industry gossip and all that, but would it kill him to give more of a shit on occasion? If he has any thoughts about going out on his own when this is over, he really needs to get better at it. Maybe this is him trying. Sure, a charity photoshoot isn’t exactly a comprehensive branding strategy or a marketing plan for a twenty-city tour, but it’s a start. Besides, Christian’s my bro. If there’s a thing he wants and there’s not a good reason for him not to get it, then I’ll do whatever I can to make it happen.

“Cool,” I say, standing to retrieve the ball that’s rolled under the best coffee table on earth. “Let’s do it.”